A Cracked Rib, a Loose Tooth and Bruised Pride
by Camillo
Summary: She's a beautiful brunette, and you're hopelessly, irretrievably in love with her. Funnily enough, I know just how you feel! Fluffy crossover fic with prior knowledge of both shows not mandatory. Please note: spoilers for Spooks S10 and Doc Martin S05


**Spoilers for **_**Spooks**_** Series 10 and **_**Doc Martin **_**Series 5!**

My first ever attempt at a cross-over, and very fluffy it will be too. It should also be relatively comprehensible to readers who have not seen both TV programs. I hope the Doc Martin crew don't mind me having a little attempt at Portwenn. I'm a Westcountry lass myself, and many of the program's village antics make me roll my eyes, but hopefully, this won't ring too false.

For the benefit of non-UK readers/viewers:

In this country, the phrase "public school" refers to a suite of fairly exclusive _private_ fee-paying schools, most of which have boarders, most of which are single-sex rather than co-ed. Entrance to these schools is usually conditional, based on performance in an entrance exam taken at the age of 10-11. Many also have a few "day pupils" who live locally and don't board. The eleven-plus is another form of entrance exam, taken at the same age and used by grammar schools. These are basically state-funded schools that only take bright kids. They're always asking parents for extra money, but attendance isn't conditional on fees being paid.

Prep schools (preparatory schools) are again private, fee-paying and sometimes boarding schools. They're designed to get small children ready for public school. Boarding versions are usually for ages 7-11 years. State-funded primary schools are for ages 4-11, so a child might start off at the local school and then be packed off to the other side of the country a couple of years later. Some love it, some hate it, and many an establishment career depends upon it.

**All the usual disclaimers apply.**

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><p><strong>A Cracked Rib, a Loose Tooth and Bruised Pride<strong>

The patient was unlike any other he had treated since coming to Portwenn. For one thing, the man was immaculately dressed in a charcoal wool suit and gold silk tie that put his own outfit to shame. Double cuffs and cufflinks. An understated but elegantly masculine watch. Black leather shoes with a shine you could see your reflection in. The man was slightly overweight in a broad-shouldered, stocky way, and he moved with an upright, precise gait that spoke of a military background.

'Sorry to bother you, but I thought someone ought to give me a quick once over,' the man said, his accentless voice betraying a hint of a drawl.

'What is it?'

'Probably just a cracked rib, a loose tooth and bruised pride,' the man replied.

'You should have gone to A&E.'

'Not worth it.'

'You'll have to go for an x-ray if your ribs are broken. There might be a splinter.'

'We'll see, shall we?'

'What happened?'

The man stayed silent. His eyes twinkled benignly, but somehow Martin knew that his expression was just a flicker away from chilly reserve. 'I need to know,' he said impatiently. 'To look for probable injuries.'

'Just a mugging. A few punches and a few kicks.'

'Multiple assailants?'

'Three or four.'

'Did you lose consciousness at any point?'

The man smiled wryly. 'Oh, no. I was fully conscious the whole time.'

Despite himself, Martin was curious. Unlike the majority of cases, he wanted more details from the man, not less. The absence of chatty complaint and spuriously boring information hovered in the air between them. It _almost_ tempted him to initiate a conversation.

'Undress over there.'

The man frowned. 'Completely?'

'Down to your underwear.'

There was an audible sigh, and then the rustle of clothing commenced. Martin glanced down at the visiting patient form the man had handed to him as he walked into the room. The writing was neat, the content minimal, and the ink looked like it came from a decent fountain pen rather than one of Morwenna's well-chewed biros.

Name: Henry James Pearce

Date of birth: 1/11/1953

Address: The Crab and Lobster, Portwenn (temporary)

Blood group: O-Negative

Allergies: None

Current medication: None

Outstanding conditions: Possible high blood pressure

Reason for appointment: Minor injuries, possible fractured rib

Registered GP: None

He snapped on a pair of latex gloves, picked up his penlight, checked the bulb shone brightly against his palm and looked up.

And froze.

Henry James Pearce looked back at him. His expression was withering. 'Just get on with it, Doctor,' he snapped.

Martin blinked twice and instinctively opened his mouth to snap back. The patient raised an eyebrow in such a way that his voice died in his throat. He wasn't accustomed to being made to feel small. Since Aunty Joan died, nobody in Portwenn had the ability (except perhaps for Louisa Glasson, but that was different). Despite the fact that he was standing there in a pair of boxer shorts, arms folded defensively across his chest, this man made him feel about four years old.

'Right then,' he muttered. 'Tilt your head up and look straight ahead.'

Both pupils were responsive. There was a heavy bruise on the man's left jaw and a raw-looking cut on the inside of his cheek where his teeth had sliced in during a hard punch. His torso was littered with further bruises that had begun to meld into each other until most of his ribcage was painted an unpleasant red-blue-green.

'These weren't all inflicted at the same time,' Martin announced. 'This one looks at least eight hours older than this one over here.'

Mr Pearce remained silent. Martin ran an exploratory finger across a particularly tender-looking spot and narrowed his eyes in satisfaction at the pained hiss of breath it induced. 'Probably fractured, but not a complete break.'

'Thought so.'

'There's a very clear boot print on your back. I should really contact the police.'

'There would be absolutely no point.'

'You don't want to press charges?'

'There's nobody to press charges against.'

'Don't be stupid.'

The patient smiled charmingly and spoke as if to a particularly dense toddler. 'Believe me, Doctor Ellingham, I am not being stupid. As you can see, I've got some previous experience of this sort of thing.'

Martin let his eyes wander over the man. A large and obvious scar on the left shoulder that looked like the result of a shotgun wound. A smaller version on the right upper arm; a small-calibre bullet this time. A faint ring of marks around one nipple that looked suspiciously like old cigarette burns. Three parallel white ridges across the left side of the abdomen indicating knife wounds deep enough to have permanently weakened the muscle. A truly nasty twisting scar across the right knee – obviously a hasty operation with no time to think of aesthetics. Done in a warzone? Rushed because the patient's heart had stopped beating on the table?

'Who are you?' he whispered.

'Harry Pearce,' the man replied. 'I take it I can get dressed?'

oOo

That evening, Martin finished his salad, poured himself a fresh glass of water and stared into the sink for two minutes. Then he poured the water away and walked out of the house, striding down the hill towards the Crab and Lobster in the evening sunshine.

He found Mr Pearce outside the pub, sat at a picnic table with a tumbler of some sort of alcohol. Next to him, inevitably it seemed, Louisa was sipping a glass of white wine and breaking into laughter.

'You didn't!' she exclaimed.

'I'm ashamed to say I did. The stag invited ten friends along to play this espionage game. The aim was to get to Paris, but you couldn't take a passport, buy a ticket, or take any money with you.'

'My God. You couldn't do that nowadays.'

There was an infinitesimal pause. 'Um. No. No, I don't suppose you could. Anyway, even then the stag and I were the only people who actually made it to Paris! One chap tried to swim the channel and caught pneumonia. Two got caught by Customs and Excise, and two got into a fight in Lyon and ended up being deported. We had this enormous bar tab I'd arranged in advance, so the stag and I ended up trying to drink the lot ourselves.'

Louisa rolled her eyes. 'Oh, dear.'

Mr Pearce twinkled at her. 'On the contrary, it's one of the best nights out I've ever had.'

'Well you shouldn't be drinking now!' Martin cut in sharply. 'You're blood pressure is too high, and you're recovering from a nasty attack.'

The reply was equally sharp. 'I don't think Miss Glasson needs to hear my _entire_ medical history, do you? Or are you simply in the habit of throwing doctor-patient confidentiality out of the window every time you feel the need to stamp your authority on a situation?'

Louisa choked on her wine. Martin felt the telltale burn of a blush beginning in the tips of his ears. 'You shouldn't be drinking either,' he barked at her. 'You're breastfeeding.'

'Martin!' she growled. 'Do _not_ embarrass me.'

'You cannot breastfeed James after drinking that wine!'

'It's only one glass, and I've expressed an extra twelve hours' worth anyway. Not that it's any of your business.'

'Of course it's my business! Our son—'

'If you had your way, you'd be packing our son off to prep school before he can walk!'

'Louisa, don't be stupid!'

'You really should stop saying that,' Mr Pearce suggested mildly, standing up and somehow managing to hide the stiffness he must have been feeling. 'I'm getting another Scotch. Doctor Ellingham?'

'No!'

Louisa slapped a hand on the picnic table. 'Martin! Where the hell are your manners?'

'No, _thank you_.'

'Suit yourself. Have you checked your own blood pressure lately?'

'That is absolutely none of your business.'

Mr Pearce smiled. 'It isn't, is it?' And on that note he made his way inside to the bar.

Martin gritted his teeth. 'Where's James?'

'With Mum. She's watching X-Factor on the telly.'

'I could have had him for the evening. I haven't seen him since Wednesday.'

Louisa gazed up at him, squinting slightly into the sun. The thought of how warm her skin would feel under his fingertips flashed across his mind, the inevitable thump of his heart following shortly after.

'It's only three days. Have you missed James in that time?' she asked, sounding genuinely curious.

'Of course I have.'

'So wouldn't you miss him if he was away at school for a whole term?'

'That's different.'

'Why?'

'Because I'd know it was for the best.'

'Why?'

'Because he'd be getting the best possible education. And he'd be learning proper discipline.'

'Did _you_ want to go away to school when _you_ were little?'

It seemed a ridiculous question. 'I didn't have any choice in the matter.'

Louisa sighed. 'No, you didn't have a choice. Not with your parents the way they were. But would it be so bad if James _did_ have a choice?'

'What do you mean?'

'At least waiting until he's old enough to decide?'

Martin made a sceptical noise. 'When exactly might that be?'

'Secondary school. If he wanted to, he could do the eleven plus, or the entrance exam for a public school. He could decide if he wanted to be a boarder.'

'You'd let him go?'

Louisa's expression hardened. 'I'd have to. If it was a great school, with great teachers and amazing facilities, and it was what _he_ really wanted to do, I'd have to let him go.'

'But eleven is really too late.'

'Late?'

'He needs prep school to learn the right things first.'

'The right things?'

'How to behave. How to speak. The appropriate academic level, and so on.'

'Martin! I'm a primary school head teacher. I think I know what the appropriate academic level for an eleven year-old is!'

'For a village school, perhaps ...'

She finished her glass of wine and stood up abruptly. 'So you think that if James attended _my_ school, then by the time he was eleven years old, he'd be an ill-disciplined, backward oaf with an embarrassing country bumpkin accent that no decent public school would accept.'

'Perhaps it wouldn't be that bad.'

'_Martin!_'

'I just think that his life would be very difficult. He wouldn't fit in. The other boys would make fun of him.'

'So it's prep school at seven, or severe bullying at eleven?'

His expression lightened considerably. At last, Louisa seemed to understand the way things were. 'Exactly!'

'Why on earth would I want to send my son to a school where children are bullied just because of the way their voices sound?'

'Louisa—'

'No, Martin. You've argued your point, and it's not exactly convincing. I'll see you later.'

She extracted herself from the picnic table in a not entirely dignified manner and stalked off towards her cottage, ponytail swinging defiantly. Martin watched her go, drinking in the sight of her until the last possible moment.

'Oh dear, you've scared her off,' someone remarked.

'Hmmm?'

'I was enjoying her conversation,' the voice added, amusement creeping in. 'Not a bad view from behind, either, now you come to mention it.'

'_What?_' Martin snarled, swinging around to face Mr Pearce, who was regarding him with a knowing eye.

'Easy, tiger! Don't worry about me. She's a beautiful brunette, and you're hopelessly, irretrievably in love with her. Funnily enough, I know just how you feel.'

'Stop wittering nonsense.'

'There's no point trying to hold onto your dignity, you know. If you really want her, you're going to have to tell her all your deepest, darkest secrets and lay your soul at her feet.'

'I have no idea what you're talking about.'

'When's the last time you told her you love her?'

Martin didn't deign to respond.

Mr Pearce smiled sympathetically. 'Big mistake, Doctor Ellingham. Believe me, I should know. Don't think about it. Don't hesitate to repeat yourself, seemingly _ad nauseum_. Above all, don't put it off a second longer than you have to.'

Any plans Martin had for subtly gaining additional information on the source of the mysterious Mr Pearce's injuries were thrown right out of the window. 'I'm-I'm ... Oh, just _go away!_'

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><p><em>TBC? Feedback would be handy for this, as I'm new to cross-overs and one of the fandoms. Cheers!<br>_


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